


Return Stroke

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Hurt Jesse McCree, M/M, POV Second Person, Protective Hanzo Shimada
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:08:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: He is yours, and you do not permit anyone to hurt what's yours.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 18
Kudos: 253





	Return Stroke

**Author's Note:**

> This was 1000% inspired by the amazingly talented [Vimeddiee's](https://twitter.com/Vimeddiee) piece [here](https://twitter.com/Vimeddiee/status/1208223061595410433?s=20). I'm WEAK for snarly Hanzo.

Here is a new nightmare to slot in amongst the others: finding your lover face down in some filthy back alley, crumpled and still, beaten and bloody.

The horror of it hits you with the kinetic force of a collapsing building, the totality of it leaving no room in your lungs for air. His call for help is still fresh in your mind, his desperation palpable enough even through the radio to have sent you running, heedless of the danger, on his half-relayed heading. His voice cut mid-word, and that little static choke played over and over in your skull as you ran, as you fought toward where you could only hope he was. Have you already heard his last words?

Instinct moves your feet. There is a noise, not the chattering pop of gunfire, but a low, animal whine. Is it coming from you, Hanzo? Grit your teeth, just in case it is.

Jesse’s right hand is curled around Peacekeeper, her cylinder open and empty, his left pinned underneath his chest. Kneel beside him and reach a shaking hand to his neck. His skin is still warm under your fingers, but you have to search for a pulse. The throb of it under the pads of your fingers makes you choke on your relief. He’s _alive_.

When you withdraw your fingers, they come back with tacky, rust colored smears. Blood, spilled first somewhere under his hair, had flowed down to his neck. Horror is dry tinder for your rage. Feel it lick at the inside of your chest like a wildfire, steadying and consuming you.

Whoever laid so much as a finger on Jesse will pay.

Roll him over, careful as you are furious. A speedloader falls from his left hand, rolls into your knee. Tuck into a pocket on your quiver. He was prepared to go down fighting. Did he know you were coming? Did he think he’d been abandoned? The thought makes a shiver run down your spine.

There is a ragged hole torn in Jesse’s body armor, blood oozing out of it. Stare at it. Wonder, helplessly, about what made it. Who made it. Your hand hovers uselessly over the wound. There is no meaningful pressure you can apply with his body armor still in place, but that might be the only thing holding him together. Clench your frustrated fingers into a fist. Lift him into your lap.

Feel his limp weight. Fix every bruise, every cut in your memory. Let your anger feed on it. He wheezes pitifully as you move him but doesn’t wake. Want him to know that you are here. Fear seeing him caught in the teeth of so much pain.

Shouts, close, unfamiliar make your attention snap to the mouth of the alley. The enemy—how could you have forgotten? Anger metastasizes to hate. The fever heat of it makes your vision spot. Are these the men who would _dare_ touch what’s yours?

A fire team materializes, weapons trained on you—spot blood on the gloves of two of them. Your lips curl over your teeth in a silent snarl. Let one hand wander low, toward the top of Jesse’s boot. There are five men before you who do not yet know that they are dead.

“Secure the target.” One snaps. Another takes a slow step forward. Wrap your fingers around the knife Jesse keeps in his boot.

“Over my _dead BODY_!” Bellow those four words with enough venom to make them flinch.

Perfect.

Lunge, like some great cat from his hiding place. Wake the beasts hiding under your skin. The time to feed has come. Hellfire, unearthly blue, bursts into existence at your left.

Gunfire erupts, lead slugs digging uselessly into the buildings behind your dragons. Their fury, mirroring your own, thunders into the ether, causing your radio to screech in your ear. One of the men drops his weapon to wrap his hands—encased in their bloody gloves—around his head. Drive Jesse’s knife into his subclavian artery. The spray of blood is hot and horrible against your face, but do not let it distract you.

Turn in time to see your dragons rend one limb from limb. He burns as he dies, and he screams until his lungs whither to nothing in his chest. Take the opportunity the distraction of his death provides, bury the knife into the neck of their leader. A glancing blow from the butt of his rifle tears the skin over your cheek. Twist the knife to speed his death.

More gunfire. His body armor takes the brunt of the spray. Feel something catch in your side. Ignore it. Heave the corpse away and duck low. So close, their rifles are almost a liability. Grab one man’s rifle by the rail and push it skyward. Its owner fires helplessly. Gut him like an animal. The last turns to flee—do not allow it. Throw the knife. The blade catches him in the shoulder and he cries out. Your dragons follow it, fanged mouths open and eager to devour.

In the silence after, fall to your knees.

Blood—your blood—is flowing from your side. The wound feels like nothing. Your radio is still screaming feedback—rip it out. It is too damaged to be of use anymore.

Turn. Look at Jesse. Will you be able to carry him? You aren’t sure. Get to your feet anyway.

* * *

The medbay is not a good place to wake. It’s too bright, far too open, just barely too loud. Your irritation manifests as a low groan.

This is what you get for letting someone kick your shit in, Jesse.

Try to lift your good arm to block out the light, but fail. Something is weighing it down. Your painkiller and concussion addled head takes too long to realize that it can turn, find the problem.

It’s not a problem though, not precisely. It’s Hanzo.

He scowls in his sleep. That endears him to you and worries you by turns most days. Right now, in the medbay, it only worries you. Notice, late, that he’s propped up on a mess of pillows. Notice the IV snaking away from one hand. Notice the wad of gauze and biotic patches on his side. Unease creeps in, spinning filaments of dread into your chest.

Remember, with perfect clarity, how badly the last op went. Fail, completely, to fit Hanzo into the fallout.

“Sweetheart?” Your voice is little more than a breath. He doesn’t stir. Maybe it’s better that he doesn’t.

Your thumb begins to trace mindless patterns into the back of his hand. His skin is warm, smooth, where you can touch. Other places it seems barely held together by butterfly sutures. Lift your hand to your face and feel your own constellation of little plastic strips.

Know, deep in your bones, how close a call it must have been.

Slip your fingers out of his. Imagine, briefly, that his scowl furrows just a bit deeper. Make up for it by curling into him. His heartbeat is slow and strong under the paper gown, his body warm and solid.

Let the feeling of safety pull you back into unconsciousness.


End file.
